The Hump Seat

The phone vibrates with a plan for the beach,

a rental house just slightly out of my reach.

They’ve picked the dates and the grocery list,

counting me in as if I barely exist.

On the train, I’m sitting on my own cold hands,

shrunk down small for their travel demands.

I can still feel the heat of the middle seat,

the Volvo’s upholstery, the smell of the fleet.

That scratchy blue fabric pressed into my thighs,

looking at the world through their bigger-sized eyes.

I'm thirty-two years old and I'm still the one

who gets the floor when the beds are all done.